Tactics
by SyntaxSynodic
Summary: Self insert fic for fun! Explore the personality of a new class. Rating is subject to change.


**A/N: Hey guys, Scree here. Welcome to the first TF2 fanfiction I've ever attempted. Updates will most likely be infrequent as I've been getting busier, and this story's style is a challenge to write in. Originally, that's what this story was written as: a challenge to myself. Well, challenge accepted(?). It is written in present tense and second person, so I wrote it in a way that you can experience this character. Main-chan counts as on OC. Frick. I've gone to the dark side(?) of fanfiction. Oh well~.**

**Also, this is meant to be a self indulgent fic, so and it will be. So, rating is subject to change. The atmosphere of this story will be significantly more carefree in later chapters.**

**I hope you enjoy this fic even though it may not be what you are used to reading. **

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><p>A business woman. Prim and proper, with tidy, pulled-back ebony hair. Black, bold framed glasses slide down her nose and she pushes them back into place with thin, delicate fingers.<p>

She is a fine picture of corporation. So then… what is she doing on your doorstep?

"Hello! I'm Miss Pauling," The words burst from her mouth brightly, like colourful paint splattering across a unfulfilled canvas. She extends one of those delicate hands and smiles. Instantly, you feel grateful that her hand is more of an offer than a forceful greeting, like that of the door to door salesmen and women with too-big grins. You return the salutation, albeit a bit heedfully.

"Hello ma'am," Your voice is not like bright paint on any white canvas. In fact, your voice is rather raw from sleeplessness. More of something solid than liquid. The vibrant purple of Prim Lady's dress catches your eye as you vaguely hear her say your name. She asks if the name is yours. You nod. The authority in her hands while she clutches a clipboard and pencil frighten you. Your heart beats faster as she scribbles something down. This reminds you that fear is just a synonym for government, and you feel your fingernails bite hungrily into your palms.

She says your name confidently, like ammunition you've foolishly given a murderer. A terrifying, precipitous thought explodes through your mind like a hand grenade. She knows.

In a split second a thousand more thoughts follow in a tide. Of course she doesn't know. You're panicking over nothing. She probably just wants to sell you shit. You swallow your nerves as she looks to you expectantly; her eyes are like the sea in that of depth and colour. Even more panic comes. You hear your name again, spoken less confidently.

"Uh, sorry, hon. Did you ask me something?" Your own tired voice reaches your ears. She smiles knowingly.

"Yes. I'd like to discuss a job offer with you, if you're interested." Her tone is so genuine your ears refuse to believe it. But if she doesn't know… You look down for a moment. You've only owned this apartment for three months, and your rent for this month is overdue… You can't afford to draw attention to yourself. Not yet. Surely you can just say no if the job isn't to your liking.

"If this job pays more than waitressing, please tell me more." A brief look of triumph flashes across her pretty face. She looks almost the same age as you, though she's definitely younger. Maybe she's just one of those ladies who looks like a teenager for forever. It's the way that she carries herself that distinguishes her from the foolish youth of children. Her posture tells you a story of power and importance. What is someone so young looking doing with so much authority? It unnerves you.

"Well then, a discussion is to be had! May I come in?" She asks cheerfully. You "oh, uhm, sure" your way through a response and step aside for her to pass. You show her to your small kitchen table and smooth your paisley dress self consciously. Your apartment is not looking its most tidy, and you worry what a woman of her status would think. If she has noticed the neatly stacked boxes everywhere, she does not let you know. She seems to be very good at guarding her feelings with expressions of neutrality. This lets you know that she is used to working with dishonest or unpredictable people. Small, elegant hands place a very simple leather bound briefcase upon your kitchen table and unbuckle the clasps.

An uneasy feeling constricts your ribs as you wonder why she's asking you. You've not lived anywhere more than a few months, and your jobs haven't been spectacular (as far as anything corporate was concerned). So… why? You see her professedly "passive" gaze slide over your belongings meticulously. She has to have training. Is she a police officer? No, she would have shown credentials… unless she's under cover… Your fingers itch for her throat. If she is, then your desperately compressing hands are what she deserves. Teach her to trick me…

You hear your name being called for the second time that day. She has asked if you are alright. You nod, chastising yourself. Pay attention, dammit. You're already starting to act suspiciously. You sit across from Prim Lady.

She adjusts her glasses in what would have been an endearing way, had she not awakened the business side of you. She eloquently tidies a stack of papers produced from the briefcase and hands them over to you. You take them immediately. It's a five page contract. Reliable Excavation Demolition…?

"You represent a demolition company?" you ask incredulously. She sees your raised eyebrow display. She adjusts the white collar of her plum dress, an obvious habit of unease.

"Not exactly." You squint quizzically at the contract. Your eyes catch a string of words about weapons payments and company boundaries as far as ammunition spending is concerned. The number of the spending limit over exceeds generous.

A searing feeling sizzles through the veins in your limbs and comes to rest heavily in the pit of your stomach. She knows. She knows! Where the fuck is my switchblade..?

Prim Lady must've read your expression because she holds up those pale, delicate hands slowly.

"You're probably wondering who I am by now," Her body is taught, vigilant, but her voice and expression are ever unshakeable. You respond with naught but a look; it is her first and only warning. Your silence seems to heighten her readiness.

"You've every right to be wary of me, but I'm not here to harm you. Your identity is safe."

"Then how do you know who I am?" You hear yourself snarl. Your hand scrabbles behind you for your blade. You swore you left it on the counter. Before your eyes, Prim Lady produces a pocketknife- no, YOUR switchblade- from beneath the wide belt of her dress. Blood rushes to your face.

"We've been observing you."

"Who's we?" Your hand itches for that knife… Your knife… You've been humiliated in your own home. There was no way to foresee this. But of course she took your knife. She's been watching you, so it seems. Her painted nails glint as she touches the spine of the knife as it lies sandwiched between the sheath of the handle; gentle touches of examination rather than the firm and familiar touches of ownership. This is a good sign. She doesn't want to take. Not the knife, anyway.

"This is a very good looking instrument. Custom made." The subject change flows fluently from her mouth, like a practiced and perfected language. "Does it have a name?" she asks, first trailing her index finger along the sex pin, then further upwards past the firing button. A surge of untoward pride pumps through your arteries.

"Princess." The word is produced almost immediately, and Prim Lady's smile lets you know she appreciates the irony of such a name. She holds it out to you butt first, the proper way. You take it and deftly tap the firing button, and the blade bursts from its small prison. Prim Lady shows no sign of intimidation.

"Nice things like that are expensive, but your money problems can be easily solved, can't they." This is not said as a question. She looks you in the eye. "In fact, you don't even need money to get most of the things you want or need. A talented thief doesn't rely on cash alone." You dare not break eye contact. "But. Money is power, and since that bank heist in New York, you've been feeling pretty powerful, haven't you? Or at least, you were until lately. Moving around so much has chipped away at your 'power.' You're very near to the amount you had before your last heist in Massachusetts, am I correct?"

The picture she's painted with her words may as well be a mirror to everything you'd done in the past year. Your silence confirms her theory.

"Must be hard to find and keep down a job." You wonder if this is her leverage. Her cage. "That's why I'm here. You seem better suited for this job than any you'll find here legally." You glance at the contract.

"What's in it for you?" The words slip from your mouth before you have a chance to dissolve them on your acid tongue. She smiles brightly.

"It's business; I get paid to clean up your messes and keep everything quiet." So money is her incentive. That's fine. Money is your incentive too. Of course she knows that; you can see that she is similar to you in many ways. Observant eyes, manipulative tongue, packaged in the "innocent" and "weak" form of a woman. You wonder how strong she is physically. She is petite, but does not carry herself like you do. She carries herself with a pride and confidence you've never known outside the heat of a heist. A heist that is going very well.

Your fingers brush the contract. Prim Lady gestures outward with her small hands.

"By all means, please. I have the time." The crisp, pristine pages greet your fingers with their smooth salutation. This is too good to be true. But the contract is so well written and very technical. A little too far for a practical joke.

… A hitman. A mercenary. Your mouth waters. The pay is good. Very good.

But then, of course it is. Your life is in constant danger. And if your life is ended, all that dough won't be doing you any good, will it?

"This is too easy," you say. "If I was to accept your offer, I'd be too replaceable." The contract mentions nothing about mortality rates. Prim Lady smiles. But it is a devious smile, like she's sitting atop of the world's largest secret. Like the look you used to give Eric when your steal was a bit more far-reaching than normal. Of course, you haven't seen him since high school.

Catching and caging away thoughts of the past, you raise an eyebrow at Prim Lady. Her grin widens.

"Most of our employees have been with us about five years."

"So they're good." You reply. "You've probably noticed, but I'm not someone with great physical stature, stamina, or strength. What makes you think I won't be mown over?"

"I know for a fact you are very perceptive and prone to take action. Watching your heists and studying you even now has proven that." This is stated as fact and not flattery, which you are grateful for. You may be dishonest yourself, but inauthenticity directed at you has always rubbed you the wrong way. Especially by people who are convinced that they have control over you in any way.

You drum the fingers of one hand on the cheap table; your other hand toys with Princess. Prim Lady says nothing. You are also grateful that she knows when to shut up. If she didn't, this decision would simply be bypassed to get her the hell out of your house. Your thumb taps the butt of your knife. Lady eyes it carefully. Even though she talks to you easily, you make her nervous. And that's perfectly fine with you. You weigh the options silently, quickly. Your eyes scan the pages one last time. You have made your decision.

You flip Princess's blade down into her hilt and grab a pen. This startles the carefully controlled Prim Lady. The rapid, neat scrawl of your signature seems to surprise her even more. She collects the contract from your outstretched hand when you are finished.

"That certainly didn't take long…" You shrug.

"What have I got to lose?"


End file.
